“Please, universal soul, practice some song, or something, through me!”

“Birdsong brings relief
to my longing.

I am just as ecstatic as they are,
but with nothing to say!

Please, universal soul, practice
some song, or something, through me!”

~Rumi, from Birdsong, translations of Coleman Barks

I stumbled across Rumi’s poem this week, and it captures my sentiments exactly.  In autumn, my attention often turns from the manufacture of books to the writing of them.  I long to sit, idle, and have poems come tumbling in.  I long to wander the landscape in intimate conversation with the soul of the world.  And sometimes I do.

Last week I sorted through all of my starts and false starts ~ scribbled notebooks, interrupted reverie- to harvest a few poems if I could find them.  I tore out the complaints, tossing many pages entirely.  I had a splendid fire in the outdoor pizza oven.  To release the old; the unsatisfactory; the ineffective; the mediocrity….I could go on.  It was exhilarating to turn the burning pages with a spade, feeling the heat on my face.  It felt wonderful to let it all go in plumes of ashes and smoke.

Now I am ready, open, and empty- longing for the universal soul to practice some song, or something, through me.